I could not help seeing a woesome picture.
"Poor little soul, with the blood pouring from her heart and her brown hair spread over her dead father's breast!" I stopped, because a faint memory came back to me.

"Mine," I stammered--"mine--how strange!--had a great stain on the embroideries of her dress.

She looked at it--and looked.

She looked as if she didn't like it--as if she didn't understand how it came there.

She covered it with ferns and bluebells." I felt as if I were being drawn away into a dream.